Side Dish: "The Thing" - Dragoon, AZ

For many, there are the Great Pyramids of Egypt, Machu Picchu in Peru, or the iconic statues of Easter Island. For others, Paris, London, and Rome set the heart a-flutter, beckoning weary travelers with their mystery, romance, and historical heft. All are well and good in their own way, but here and now, land-locked and fearing air travel as if it were not the most statistically safe mode of transport, we have the blissful roadside attraction. Where giant wooden bears, balls of twine, and houses of mud speak to the inner idiot in us all, American Style. While we have yet to close the book on this obsessive quest to see the garish, the silly, and the absurd, we have, with The Thing, seen the best. Or at least the most popular. Outside of Wall Drug in South Dakota, no slice of Americana advertises itself so shamelessly, all but forcing drivers at gunpoint to inspect its wares. What is it? Who is it? And why are there 247 eye-catching billboards over 200 sun-soaked miles of Southwestern highway, each successive claim more desperate than the rest?

But if you're coming to Willcox, AZ, or have spent any time in Tombstone, you'll stop at The Thing, well, because you must. I can't imagine anyone passing this little shop and not being driven mad with regret. As such, it's the most brilliantly advertised piece of schlock in the known universe, as no one wants to be that one person who caved to common sense. Will it be disappointing? Hell yes, but would you expect anything less? If curiosity killed the cat, curiosity about worthless crap killed every gullible man and woman who thought nothing of plunking down four shiny quarters to witness Armageddon. The parking lot full, and the man behind the counter predictably grizzled and tight-lipped, we fell into line like lambs at the slaughter. I've never felt so incredibly stupid and yet so privileged, all at the same time.

Following the handy yellow footprints into worlds unknown, we passed the strangest collection of junk, trash, and odds-n-ends not found on an episode of Hoarders. For every Wooden Indian, there was a piece of rusty farm equipment, defying gawkers to explain how a covered wagon was best explained by its proximity to a 1937 Rolls Royce that allegedly belonged to Hitler. For doubters, there's a wooden dummy of the Fuhrer right inside, peering out the back window as if sentient and struck dumb by the fall from grace as Europe's top madman to sideshow bearded lady. Scenes of torture abound, as if to prove that the maniac who runs the place was some kind of horror movie stock character who led dopey tourists to their doom, like something out of the House of Wax.

Pressing on, one encounters more scupltures, glass cases of "prized" specimens that range from plastic to papier mache, and even more bizarre odes to human depravity. At that moment, the guessing game begins - are we about to watch a murder? Was there a snuff film at the end of this psychotic maze, or at the very least, some kind of rotting animal carcass that rubbed our noses in shame? It could be anything - a piece of furniture with a nasty legacy ("Here sat John Smith as rabid bats jabbed at his eyes"), a pile of dung in the shape of the Holy Virgin, or even some sacred garment from centuries past. All this for a lousy dollar? Nothing else on earth can be had so cheaply, and most of the time, we pay ten times that amount to be thoroughly bored. Hell, at this point, I'll accept anything not some crazed mountain man behind a curtain, ready to launch buckshot at my face.

And then you arrive. The footprints, so damned inviting and ticklish, stopped at last. The above box, like some twisted sarcophagus from the devil's bowels, was all that stood between us and what remained of our sanity. Dare we look in? What could be behind that glass? Is it......could it be.......was that really.........

B-b-b-b-u-u..........


Oh my gggg.........................

(cough). I see. A mummy? The corpse of a Vietcong, brought back by a Travis Bickle-type who couldn't stifle the gunfire? Who knows? And don't ask the man behind the counter, because he's not talking. I know what you're thinking - an empty coffin wouldn't have been half as bad, for at least then you could rationalize the experience as some kind of postmodern joke. I knew this was a waste of time, yet I hated having my time wasted. Couldn't they at least have stashed Hitler in there, locked in some bizarre embrace with the shell of a mummified farmer? None of it matters. You came, you saw, and you left a buck poorer; more so, if you purchased any of the three dozen Thing-inspired trinkets, from shot glasses to bottled water. All at once, it hits home. "The Thing" is America itself; a doomed journey through various stages that make little sense, all in the hope of leaving better off than when you started. Only there's some dead dude under glass standing in your way. There's always something.